A WEEK AT PARIS <br /> <br />When loud March from the East begins to blow, <br />And earth and heaven are black, then off we hie <br />By the night train to Paris, where we know <br />Three windows set to the meridian sky, <br />A third floor in the Rue de Rivoli. <br />There we will stop and see the fair world move <br />For our sole pleasure past us, you and I, <br />And make pretence we are once more in love. <br /> <br />We need not fret at loss of pence or time, <br />Though Father Bignon's smiles are paid in gold. <br />This life in idleness is more sublime <br />Than all our toil and all our wealth twice told. <br />We need not fret. To--night for us shall Faure, <br />Sara, Dupuis, or L'heritier unfold <br />New stores of mirth and music, and once more <br />We two shall sup, and at the Maison d'or.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-idler-s-calendar-twelve-sonnets-for-the-months-march/
